


i want to know your plans (and how involved in them i am)

by eso (cazzy)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Social Media, and yuuri dances hip hop, competitive DDR, enthusiastic blowjobs, shifting povs, slight angst, victor is a ballet dancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/eso
Summary: Wherein Yuuri is fairly sure his lifelong inspiration-slash-idol's sudden interest in him is entirely unwarranted, and Victor — Victor's just starting to learn what life and love really mean, after years of dedicating every fiber of his being to ballet.





	i want to know your plans (and how involved in them i am)

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for [Iris!](https://twitter.com/garewho) This was a lot of fun to write, and I hope it lives up to your expectations~
> 
> Please forgive me if any of this is inaccurate — I'm not too familiar with dancing (terms and how to describe actions, particularly) but I did invest a significant amount of time into researching and making sure this came across as cohesive.
> 
> While I was researching, I came across Russian ballet dancer [Rudolf Nureyev,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolf_Nureyev) who was an incredibly skilled dancer that literally made it to the Mariinsky Ballet before _defecting_ from the Soviet Union because he didn't like how they were running things. He was also bisexual, incredibly wealthy, and was a huge phenomenon and inspiration as an artist in Europe once he left Russia. In tribute to him, I loosely based some of Victor's backstory around him. He was truly an incredible dancer, and his death was very unfortunate. There's a [humanitarian foundation](https://www.nureyev.org/rudolf-nureyev-foundation/) dedicated to his memory, and I'm so glad to have discovered him as I gleaned information for this fic!

Over the years, Lilia’s drilled it into Victor’s head that browsing his phone just before a performance is a bad idea. Something about how easily it interrupts concentration, if he really takes the time to recall her lectures. There have even been instances in the past where she’s yanked it clear out of his hands to demonstrate her lack of satisfaction with his disregard for her rules.

It’s a silly superstition, in Victor’s opinion, and he grabs his phone from off the nearby desk to kill time before his performance. She’s from a different era, anyway, and probably thinks modern technology is going to cause societal collapse, so Victor takes her words with a grain of salt.

There isn’t anything exciting on his Instagram feed — just a cute picture of Mila’s cat and a dramatic selfie of Georgi, but it serves as a sufficient distraction. A few minutes pass as he comments on the cat pic with a, _She’s cute, but not nearly as adorable as Makkachin!_ and thumbs through some of the older pictures posted earlier in the day.

It isn’t long before it’s time. Victor sets his phone down before moving to the appropriate location.

He exhales slowly, expelling air from his lungs just as he forces any thoughts other than that of dance out of his mind, and grins widely as he steps onto the stage.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri feels like an idiot.

He should have expected this from the moment Phichit slipped him a premium ticket for Victor Nikiforov’s performance at the Michigan Opera Theatre with a grin and a _Happy birthday, Yuuri!_

Of course he’d known that the Bolshoi were touring with the New York City Ballet, and would be performing in Detroit just a few days after his birthday — he’d known it just like he’d known that tickets had sold out almost immediately after going on sale, and he’d resigned himself to watching some grainy cam-rip of the performance after sulking in his room for hours, knowing that _he_ was dancing while Yuuri was stuck at home instead of in the plush chairs of the theater’s auditorium.  

But somehow Phichit had pulled through — Yuuri basically owes him his entire life, at this point — and Yuuri had found himself not only seated in the audience as he stared in awe of Victor’s prowess, but also lined up after the performance for a quick meet and greet with one of the Bolshoi’s principal dancers.

Which brings him to his present state of existence: Yuuri Katsuki is a complete idiot.

There’s a clear difference between the world of his fantasies and the stark existence of reality, but for some reason Yuuri had imagined up a scenario where Victor would come across him, recognizing him instantly, and then they’d take a picture together and Victor would ask, _Oh, what’s your Instagram? Actually, nevermind, just give me your phone number, I’m afraid I have to go but I couldn’t possibly miss this opportunity to exchange information with someone as talented as you —_

It’s not even a _good_ fantasy, not like the ones that have Yuuri writhing in his bed late at night as he jerks himself off with Victor’s name on his lips. No, his mediocre fantasy had evaporated the moment he’d seen the flat lack of recognition in Victor’s gaze as Yuuri had stammered out some kind of praise and exclamation of how big of a fan he was. Victor had offered him a smile that Yuuri was all-too-familiar with after following the other man religiously for the majority of his life — not quite reaching his eyes, but friendly and making him seem approachable to even the shiest of his fans (fans, not _peers,_ Katsuki, you fucking moron) — and Yuuri had felt his stomach plummet even as Victor had thrown an arm around his shoulder and Yuuri had snapped a picture of them.

 _Stupid,_ he thinks to himself for the millionth time, even as he stares down at his phone, heart thump-thumping quickly in his chest as he looks at the selfie he’d managed to take with Victor. _Of course he wouldn’t recognize you, you’re a nobody._

Having an Instagram following doesn’t mean he’s actually famous, that much Yuuri knows. But there had been that one time Victor had commented on one of his videos with a _Wow!_ and an excited emoji, and Yuuri — Yuuri assumed it had actually meant something, like a complete fool. Victor’s a dancer himself, he’d probably just been linked the video by one of his ballerina friends and had been compelled to write some kind of compliment; it didn’t mean he actually _knew_ who Yuuri was.

Yuuri feels sort of miserable, which is _ridiculous_ because Phichit just gave him the best birthday present ever, and he swallows down disappointment from the backseat of the Uber he’s taking back to their shared apartment. He considers posting their selfie on his Instagram, but can’t bring himself to do more than flick through some of the filters. It would feel almost like a mark of shame, to post something about being the ballet dancer’s fan and how fantastic his performance was when all he can think about is how Victor probably forgot everything about his entire existence two seconds after meeting him.

His phone buzzes with a new notification, and it startles Yuuri out of his downward-spiraling thoughts.

**Phichit (11:10 PM):  
** _How was it!?_

It takes some effort, but Yuuri forces himself to shake off the negativity. It’s a fleeting thing, really, in the wake of what he’d seen: Victor’s performance had been _beautiful._ He’s never had the pleasure of seeing Victor dance in person — sure, he’s spent hundreds of hours watching Youtube videos of his performances, and follows every form of the man’s social media religiously — but he’d still been blown away by his effortless grace and skill.

There’s a reason Victor Nikiforov is one of the best ballet dancers alive, and Yuuri had been fortunate enough to witness it with his own eyes.

 **Yuuri (11:13 PM):  
** Incredible  
Thank you so much, Phichit.  
He performed to Stammi Vicino and I’m still crying about it  
Have you heard it before?

 **Phichit (11:14 PM):  
** Sec, listening now  
Ooh

 **Yuuri (11:14 PM):  
** Think I could dance to it?

 **Phichit (11:15 PM):  
** REMIX TIME

 

* * *

 

Typically, Victor spends the evenings after his live performances indulging in a well-earned bottle of wine from the inside of a warm bath and the walls of whatever luxurious, too-expensive hotel room the Bolshoi’s put him in.

Typically, Victor does _not_ find himself in the middle of a cheap arcade, surrounded by the blaring noises of pixelated games and over-excited children. It’s a change of pace, that’s for sure.

“Come on,” Yuri hisses, and Victor thinks if he were anyone else the blond would’ve grabbed his wrist and forcibly tugged him through the neon-lit expanse of quarter-costing videogames. As it is, he settles for jerking his head toward a pathway leading them deeper into the arcade, glaring at Victor as though he can control his movements through sheer force of will.

“What are we doing here, again?” Victor asks, even though he knows the answer. It’s just fun to rile Yuri up, sometimes, to make him think that Victor’s hardly listening to him at any given time.

“I told you,” he responds, eyes narrowed in irritation. “Beka mentioned this game to me and we don’t have any arcades nearby in St. Petersburg, so this might be our only chance to play.”

“That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.” Victor wonders if this is the true American dream he has heard about: playing games in a crowded arcade mere hours after giving hundreds of the city’s citizens an award-winning performance. He looks around, bewildered, trying to take in the vividly-flashing videogames stationed around him.

 _Such_ an interesting country.

“Yakov wouldn’t let me go alone,” Yuri growls, refusing to make eye contact. Yakov is Lilia’s husband, and he tends to travel with them when she’s unable to leave St. Petersburg. Her position with the Bolshoi is an unforgiving one, and travel isn’t always possible.

So he’s chaperoning after giving a successful performance, hm? This does seem to be quite below his paygrade, but he supposes it makes sense — he wouldn’t really want Yuri to be moving about Detroit’s streets alone, either. Still, he sighs dramatically as they turn the corner, and Yuri lets out a triumphant noise.

“Dance Dance Revolution,” Victor reads the banner of the game Yuri’s pointing at. “Wow!”

It’s a huge contraption, this arcade game. A large screen sits above two platforms covered with pink and blue arrows, and two rails stand behind the platforms of the machine. There’s some guy already playing on the machine, and Victor watches him move, trying to get a feel for the game.

He’s squinting in concentration as arrows fly across the screen, but Victor thinks he hears Yuri say _Holy shit_ under his breath, and he assumes it’s some typical noise of exasperation. He privately agrees for another reason, though: the man dancing in front of them is a wonder to behold. He’s gripping the metal bar behind him, hips swiveling almost too quickly to catch as he taps the arrows on the ground with lightning-quick foot movements, and Victor’s never seen anyone play this game before, but he’s not so dense that he can’t instantly recognize talent.

 

* * *

 

(Yuuri ends up at the arcade after the performance — he could go back to the studio, to work out the knot of tension sitting uncomfortably in his stomach, but something seems off-putting about isolating himself in the hollow expanse of one of its rooms, and so he ends up in his favorite overloud arcade, where nobody will pay too much attention to a man playing a ridiculous dance game from his home country in the corner.)

 

* * *

 

The dancer — Dance-Dance-Revolutioner? Is there even a way to properly describe him? — continues to awe both he and Yuri, although Yuri looks more constipated than really _impressed._ His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he stares down the back of the guy’s head, like he can memorize his movements just by glaring.

Victor wonders if he’s one of those people who spends all of their free time at arcades like this, honing one specific talent that really has no meaning outside of the walls of this building. A handful of minutes pass before the song blaring out of the game’s speakers ends, and the guy on the machine swipes his arm across his forehead before leaning against the railing, clearly out of breath.

“That was amazing!” Victor exclaims, hoping to catch his attention. Behind him, Yuri spits out a curse in Russian, but that’s not necessarily anything new, and it’s easy enough to ignore.

The guy turns before making some sort of choking noise as he finally notices Victor and Yuri watching him. He’s cute, Victor immediately notices, with mussed-up hair and a round face. His dark eyes are wide behind the frame of glasses perched on his nose, and he stutters something intelligible.

Victor tilts his head inquisitively. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Uh,” the guy says, looking between the both of them. “S-sorry, I’m probably in your way. You want to play, right?”

 _With you? Absolutely. Oh, he means with the_ game.

“Ah, but I’d rather watch yo—”

“Hey,” Yuri interrupts, brash and blunt as usual. His voice is softer than it usually is when he’s prodding at Victor, for some reason. “You’re good. Play me so I can beat you.”

Ah, so that’s why there are two different pads.

“ _Me?”_ the man yelps, and oh, god, he actually whips his head around like he’s trying to locate who else Yuri could possibly be speaking to. It’s far too endearing.

“Yes, _you,”_ Yuri scowls. He waves a hand at Victor, who’s pretty sure he’s doing a very poor job of hiding how enamored he currently is with this stranger. “This one’s beyond hopeless and isn’t even worth challenging.”

It’s the first bruise to his ego that Yuri’s managed all night. Victor’s not _hopeless,_ he’s one of the Bolshoi’s principal ballerinos, but he’s also positive that if he actually said something like that, the skittish man in front of them would do something like pass out, or even worse, bolt.

“So mean,” Victor sighs as the guy mutters, “Ah, I’m not so sure about that,” and Victor’s basically a goner.

“I knew you had good taste.” He says the words with a purr, enjoying the way red spreads across the bridge of the man’s nose and even touches the tips of his rounded ears.

“Oi! Stop flirting and pick a song!”

The man flushes darker than Victor’s words had originally elicited, which is disappointing but still enjoyable to watch, as he does as Yuri asks. Victor contents himself with watching the two of them argue over what song to… dance to, he figures. Yuri keeps insisting they pick one of the songs with high difficulty, but the man’s insisting that doing so is way too difficult for a _beginner,_ and in doing so raises Yuri’s hackles immediately as he yells offensively. It’s truly an interesting strategy to cover up how defensive he gets about these things, in Victor’s opinion.

It’s more fun than he would have expected, watching the two of them stomp the colored arrows to fast-paced electronic music. The songs aren’t long: before he realizes it, Yuri and the other dancer have gone through four or five of them, and Yuri finally peels himself away from the machine and mutters about going to find some water.

This leaves Victor alone with the man, which sounds entirely appealing, at least until the guy shoots him a tentative smile and asks, “Your turn?”

And he’s never one to turn down a challenge.

The only flaw in his plan — play through a few songs while flirting with guy, learn his name and maybe drag Yuri back to his hotel room so that Victor and this man can spend the evening doing things that are _certainly_ not underage-approved — is that Victor is absolutely terrible at this game.

His plan goes down the drain as he realizes that much more concentration is required to play this game than he’d originally accounted for. After missing a handful of consecutive arrows that fly across the screen, Victor grits his teeth and focuses on stepping on the appropriate arrows as quickly as possible. Competition runs in his veins, and all flirty lines swirling in Victor’s mind disappear as he focuses intently on learning this stupid game so he can impress this man, who is _stupidly_ good at said stupid game —

This method of dancing is nothing like ballet. There’s no finesse, and it’s all about speed: Victor’s quick on his toes _(heh)_ but he can’t seem to track the beat of the electronic music long enough to score the points that his opponent is racking up effortlessly.

He’d be frustrated, if not for the grin on the man’s face. It’s too genuinely appealing for any anger to actually manifest.

The song ends as abruptly as it started, and Victor’s startled to find that he’s sweaty from exertion. He usually doesn’t get this worked up unless it’s one of Lilia’s more rigorous practices, and he wonders briefly if this could be a viable work-out routine. Maybe Mila would help him import one of the machines into St. Petersburg?

“Ahhh,” Victor whines, grabbing onto the metal bar of the arcade game with a hitch in his breath. Who knew stomping on a few different-colored arrows could be so exhausting? “You’re quite good at this.”

“That was fun!” the DDR player says, and it’s clear that he’s worked up a sweat, too. He cards a hand through sweaty hair, and when it stays slicked back because of its dampness, Victor feels like he’s been hit by a truck as realization slams into him.

_Holy shit._

“You—“ he starts, mouth working faster than his brain as he blurts out, “You’re _Katsudonyuuri_!”

Katsudonyuuri is one of Victor’s favorite Instagrammers — he keeps meaning to follow him on social media, but he always seems to get too distracted to actually follow through with it. Yuri or Georgi tend to show him the dancer’s more viral videos from their own phones, and it’s never been a pressing enough issue for him that he feels the immediate need to rectify it. He sees Katsudonyuuri’s dance routines regularly, but Victor still can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner. Yeah, the glasses had distracted him, but he’s familiar with the dancer’s look of concentration as he moves — and, more specifically, Victor’s familiar with the curves of his body, which he’s definitely spent a handful of hours staring at admiringly.

“Uh,” he — _Yuuri,_ how did Victor not see it — says. “Yes… ?”

“Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me,” Yuri says after making his way back over to them, interrupting what is _clearly_ a moment between Yuuri and Victor, and hell, that’s going to get confusing rather quickly.

Yuuri stares at them in disbelief. “Um, am I missing something?”

“He’s awful at following people,” Yuri spits, gesturing to Victor. It’s a personal attack, and a terribly offensive one at that. “My best friend’s the one who made that remix for the routine you did of Victor’s _Sleeping Beauty.”_

Victor remembers Yuuri’s routine well: somehow, he’d transformed the aristocratic, elevated composition of Tchaikovsky’s into something more visceral and emotional. At its core, Yuuri’s dance had held true to Victor’s intentions as he’d performed with the Bolshoi, but he’d teased some new meaning from it that even Victor had found intriguing. Completely unexpected, as well, for someone to create something so contemporary from something so classic.

It had been gorgeous to watch.

“Ah, this isn’t real,” Victor hears Yuuri mutter as he nods firmly to himself. “I get it now.”

Excessive dancing on the DDR machine has clearly made Yuuri remarkably disoriented and confused, and Victor moves to rectify the situation and assure him that all of this is definitely real, and _Oh, by the way, would he care to go someplace quieter with Victor?_  when something clicks in place.

“Wait,” Victor says. “You knew who I was and you still beat me all night? _Yuuri,_ that’s not fair! You’re supposed to go easy on beginners!”

Yuuri, for his part, looks like he’s stepped into some sort of dreamland. There’s a dazed look in his eyes as he pans his gaze over Victor’s body and says, flatly, “Victor Nikiforov. A beginner to dancing.”

Yuri’s laughing in the background somewhere, but Victor can’t be bothered to deal with that right now. He slips his phone out of his back pocket, waving it around frantically.

“And I’m a huge fan of yours!”

_“What?”_

 

* * *

 

This has to be a dream. There isn’t really another explanation for one of the most famous ballet dancers in the world looking him straight in the eye and not recognizing him, only to turn around and proclaim to be a _fan_ of his after he’s been (metaphorically) stomped into the ground in a DDR competition.

Yuuri pinches himself as he stares back into icy blue eyes, but the sharp pain doesn’t jolt him into wakefulness. It must be some kind of hyperrealistic dream, then. Wait, but if he knows he’s dreaming, does that mean he’s transcended into lucid dreaming territory? He can do whatever he wants, then, right?

He tests the theory: sure enough, when he wills his left arm to raise it does so obediently, just like it does when he’s actually awake.  

Victor’s excitedly gesturing with his hands, now. “Your modern take on the classics is so refreshing, Yuuri! I love your choreography, and your stamina always blows me away!”

Honestly, this dream keeps getting wilder.

It wouldn’t do to spend an entire lucid dream as the stuttering, confused mess that Yuuri currently is, so he clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and answers, “Thank you,” in as level a voice as he can manage.

“Yuuri, take a picture with us! The undefeated Dance Dance Revolution champion!”

“Most people just call it DDR,” he says, but it seems to go unheard as Victor pulls Yuri — Yuri Plisetsky, who had caught Lilia Baranovskaya’s eye at _six years old_ and is expected to break world records as soon as his body has matured enough — in and whips an expensive-looking phone out.

Victor’s a whirlwind of activity and energy, and Yuuri finds himself getting swept away.

He flashes a peace sign as Victor snaps the picture, feeling almost giddy about it. The dream’s sure to end soon, and really, there are worse things Yuuri could have imagined than beating the man he idolizes at a dancing game and getting to spend time with him.

Oh, man, Phichit’s going to laugh when Yuuri tells him about this one.

 

* * *

 

When Victor was just a _danseur_ , freshly accepted into a program that boasted 70% of its graduates entering the Bolshoi, he’d grinned and _known_ he would become one of the best. Maybe it was pretentious of him to sweep his gaze around the dance studio and immediately identify the strengths and weaknesses of his peers, but it had seemed more like fact than any sort of ego-inflated opinion that he would inevitably surpass them all.

Others around him were good, but Victor was _great._ It was a prophecy that held true as he joined the Bolshoi and transitioned through the soloist ranks and settled into the role of a principal: Victor’s the best there is. There’s no point in feigning modesty or pretending when it’s something that everyone knows, and it’s satisfying to lead the pack, especially when he watches Mila spin into a fouette like she was born for it or eyes the way Yuri improves almost every time he goes _en pointe_.

He’s become more and more cognizant of it lately, though: something’s missing. It’s hard to explain the way this absence feels — empty, lacking, hollow — but since the realization, it has gotten more difficult to pretend that it isn’t there.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri looks down at his phone in horror. His immediate reaction is that something awful’s happened back home — why else would his phone be blowing up with countless notifications? But when he opens his texting app, there’s no frantic message from Mari or Minako. He hasn’t even put on his glasses yet, is just squinting suspiciously down at his phone, but even through blurry vision Yuuri can see that the bulk of the notifications are from Instagram, and he doesn’t even remember posting anything from last night.

Yuuri swallows, steeling himself against the inevitable shitstorm, and opens the app.

“Phichit?” he asks a few moments later as he fairly stumbles out of his bedroom, voice cracking embarrassingly on his best friend’s name.

“Good morning!” Phichit calls out from the kitchen. “I’m just making some tea, do you want any?”

The _idea_ of tea sounds lovely, but Yuuri’s stomach is churning so much he’s not sure he’d be able to keep it down. He hasn’t felt this bad immediately after waking up since Vicchan died, and that — wasn’t a good period of his life. Anxiety comes in waves, sometimes ebbing when he finds his confidence on the wooden dance floor of their studio, overflowing the other 99% of the time. Right now, it’s definitely high tide.

These are the facts:

Yuuri has gained approximately 8000 Instagram followers overnight.

One of these followers is his long-time idol and inspiration for getting into dancing at all, Victor Nikiforov.

On his Instagram profile, there is a tagged photo notification that, when Yuuri hesitantly clicks, shows him a picture of him grinning along with one of the most famous ballet dancers (and long-time idol and inspiration for getting Yuuri into dancing at all) and Yuri Plisetsky, who is doing a terrible job of looking like he’s not having any fun at all.

Yuuri suddenly and viscerally regrets the shot of vodka he’d done right before heading to the arcade last night. It hadn’t been enough to get him drunk, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’d been enough to help him forget the sorry excuse for a meet-and-greet with Victor at the theater. And, apparently, it had also been enough to give him the courage to beat his idol and his idol’s _protegee_ on a DDR machine.

Oh, god.

“I need to—“ he starts, but his legs are wobbling so much he basically collapses onto their living room couch before he can get the words out. “Phichit, this can’t be real.”

“What can’t be?” Phichit asks, moving into their shared space with a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands. “You kicking two famous ballet dancers’ asses in DDR, or them adoring you for it?”

Yuuri moans. “What have I done?”

“Made an incredible first impression, apparently.” Yuuri isn’t entirely convinced that Phichit doesn’t possess supernatural powers: he always knows exactly how to calm his best friend down, and it’s made him an invaluable ally as Yuuri’s mind tries to sabotage itself. “Hey, this is a good thing, okay? They clearly had a good time, and now Victor knows who you are! That’s like, a dream come true for you.”

“He didn’t recognize me at the theater,” Yuuri points out, which still doesn’t entirely make sense to him. “I feel like I’m the butt of a joke or something.”

“This doesn’t look like a joke,” Phichit says, looking down at the picture. “‘Lost horribly to this master at DDR tonight!’ Seems like they had fun.”

Yuuri drops his hands from his face long enough to unlock his phone and like the picture. He winces when he sees how many likes it already has before he thumbs through his gallery to pull up the selfie he’d taken with Victor at the theatre, mere hours before the DDR-Event-That-Will-Haunt-Yuuri-For-All-Eternity.

It’s almost comical to compare the two pictures. Yuuri’s no amateur when it comes to distinguishing Victor’s expressions, but it’s fairly obvious that Victor had put on a shallow, meaningless smile as he’d posed with Yuuri. Yuuri had looked awful himself, glasses overlarge on his face and looking more nervous than excited about the photo op. It’s a far cry from the arcade picture, where Yuuri had stashed his glasses in a pocket (his DDR movements were too erratic to keep his glasses on) and had pushed back his sweaty hair as he’d grinned for the camera.

He lets out a noise that’s equal parts disbelief and distress before dropping his phone onto the sofa.

“I’m just not sure this is as negative a thing as you’re making it out to be,” Phichit says, sipping his tea and relaxing into the couch. “You know all those ‘never meet your hero’ stories? You met your hero _and_ dominated him at the thing he’s supposed to be the best at. That has to count for something, right?”

Yuuri responds by enveloping himself in the throw blanket on their couch and spending the rest of the morning pretending he doesn’t actually exist.

 

* * *

 

(“I knew the whole time,” Yuri says snidely, which Victor doesn’t believe for a second. “It’s not my fault you’re a complete moron who can’t recognize someone just because they’re wearing glasses.”

Victor doesn’t take it personally, although it does make him think about the Clark Kent/Superman situation. Yuuri’s much cuter, though.)

 

* * *

 

Phichit refers to it as _Yuuri’s Whirlwind Romance,_ even though there was no romance and a few hours at an arcade playing a game could hardly be called a “whirlwind.”

Besides following him back on Instagram, Victor hasn’t made any attempt to contact him. It’s only been a few days since the DDR Incident, but Yuuri’s still wary. He’s checked fifteen times to make sure the Instagram follow wasn’t a mistake — it’s not, judging by how he’s also followed Phichit and has been avidly liking their updates, but Yuuri’s pretty sure that will be the extent of their future interactions.

It feels like the event itself was some trick of reality, and Yuuri forces himself to snap out of it by heading to the studio. He doesn’t have work scheduled today, but it still feels wrong to stay away from the place that feels most like home for more than a day, and besides, there are a few moves he’s been itching to try out, after seeing Victor’s performance.

He snaps a shot of himself stretching in the studio’s floor-length mirror, uploading it before browsing through his music for something suitable. Susumu Hirasawa fills the studio from a nearby Bluetooth speakers — his compositions aren’t quite fast enough for what Yuuri’s going to need for a more polished choreography routine, but for now it’s perfect. Yuuri grew up watching movies that utilized his music, and they’re a perfect transition between the classical pieces Victor dances to and the more fast-paced songs he typically dances to.

 

**katsudonyuuri**

**phichitchu, v-nikiforov, leodelaiglesia, yuri_plisetsky and 308 others like this**

warming up before practicing a new choreo! #hiphop #dancing #dance #detroit #warmup

 **v-nikiforov** exciting!  
 **phichit** (flexing emoji)

 

* * *

 

“The performance was good,” Lilia tells him over the phone a few days after the Michigan Opera House’s footage of _Stammi Vicino_ has been released, and Victor can imagine the way her eyes narrow when there’s about to be a _but_ and a heaping amount of criticism following behind it.

“I know,” Victor says softly, before she can start.

There’s a pause. “You are not the first to lose their muse in the arts,” she says, finally. It’s the closest thing to comfort that Lilia Baranovskaya offers, and he staunchly ignores the way his eyes start to burn in reaction.

It’s more than that, he knows. This isn’t some fleeting inspiration that will return like a tamed bird after given the chance to stretch its wings. This is something wrong with Victor, something broken from within him that he’s managed to conceal for years but is gradually wearing away at him like the sea against a weathered bluff, and he’s well-aware that there’s no way to prevent nature’s course.

“I’ll do better next time.”

(He doesn’t, although there are only about four people in the world who even notice.)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri winces as his spine cracks loudly mid-stretch — it’s an unpleasant noise, the way his bones pop, but it’s a necessary action to prepare himself. He’s not about to ruin his entire career because he didn’t stretch out enough before dancing.

It’s his first time attempting to choreograph _Stammi Vicino._

Phichit, the tech wizard that he is, had quietly commissioned a friend to remix Victor’s performance music into something more modern: it’s still _Stammi Vicino_ at its core, which Yuuri is immensely pleased about, but now it lends itself to the more contemporary approach of Yuuri’s hip hop and pop-infused dancing.

He’s listened to the remix endlessly on loop since Phichit sent it to him, and ideas have been cycling through his mind — if he juts his hips forward at just the right moment and bends back at the next, will it seem cohesive or just disjointed? Can he pull off a pirouette at the exact second the music swells, in an homage to Victor?

Even if Victor doesn’t really intend to pursue their newfound status of Instagram mutuals, Yuuri plans to choreograph and dance to Victor’s music. He does it with every one of the ballet dancer’s performances, and this is no different. It’s a little bit obsessive, but it’s also an anchoring force in Yuuri’s life, and he isn’t about to change _this_ routine.

(He’s only ten seconds into the song when he realizes that this is going to be much, much harder than choreographing dances to Victor’s older music ever was. It takes awhile to figure out why.)

 

* * *

 

It’s child’s play to locate the studio Yuuri works at.

Yuri insists that he’s creepy and shouldn’t be allowed out of the hotel until their plane leaves for New York, but he’s also a teenager and erroneously believes he holds some kind of power over Victor. He spends a few hours checking local dance studios around the area, and coupled with the picture Yuuri had posted a day before on Instagram, Victor pinpoints exactly where it’s located.

A single night of innocent fun typically isn’t enough for Victor to pursue another person, but he’s quickly finding out that the atypical is becoming more and more appealing, these days.

Playing DDR with Yuuri had been different. Thrilling. Victor doesn’t remember the last time he was able to do something in such a carefree manner; even though Yuuri had clearly recognized him, he hadn’t treated him as anything more than an opponent to (figuratively) stomp into the ground, and it had been such a refreshing change. Victor’s used to being fawned at, is used to the unconditional love that his fans give and the unconditional respect that the other dancers offer him — other than Yuri, but that’s part of the reason he’s so enjoyable to be around. There’s certainly something to be said about being one of the best ballet dancers in the world, but after years of being in the limelight, it doesn’t quite hold the same appeal it did when Victor was younger.

Yuuri himself is also an enigma: judging by his Instagram uploads, Victor had him pegged as a fairly confident, competent dancer. But there’s something deeper, something more insecure about him that Victor hadn’t noticed until they’d spoken in person. He wants to know more, and everyone in Victor’s life is familiar enough with him that they know how he actively pursues the things he wants.

There’s a three week break between his performance in Detroit and the one scheduled in New York City on his birthday, and Victor plans to take advantage of every moment. The distraction’s certainly nice, if nothing else.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri walks into the studio and immediately spins on his heel to exit as quickly as humanly possible, his heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage and his face heated with a blush that he’s positive not even layers of foundation could conceal.

He prays to any gods that may or may not exist that Victor didn’t notice his rapid entrance and exit, because _holy shit._ That was definitely Victor Nikiforov chatting up Yuuri’s boss and mentor, Celestino, and _what the hell was he doing here?_ And _why_ did he look like _that?_

Pressing his back to the wall, Yuuri slides down until his ass hits the cool floor, trying to slow his racing heart through sheer force of will. It’s too early to deal with this: he has a beginner hip hop/step class of kids to teach in a few hours and had planned on working out some of the kinks in his choreo before any of them arrived, but that’s clearly out of the question, now.

The gods definitely don’t exist, Yuuri thinks as the door opens and a silver head pops through with an inquisitive, “Yuuri?”

“Just a second!” This is a complete lie. Yuuri needs more than a few seconds to calm himself down and get rid of his hummingbird-fast pulse. As in, he needs a few hours. maybe. Or an eternity.

“Are you okay? You look kind of flushed.” Victor appears in his line of sight, which is definitely not helping, but if _kind of flushed_ is Yuuri’s only giveaway that he’s about to spontaneously combust, then he’ll take it.

The thing is, Yuuri’s always known Victor has a great body. It comes with the career — there is physically _no_ way for Victor to be as successful as he is without honing every muscle in his body until there isn’t an ounce of body fat; Yuuri’s a little more lenient with his weight since he isn’t on the competitive level that Victor is, but he’s familiar with the toned bodies of dancers.

Except… Yuuri’s used to seeing Victor in his ballet costumes, or even the slim, well-fitted suits he prefers for things like interviews and galas, and this is _different._

Right now, Victor’s dressed like Phichit intercepted his closet and insisted he wear clothing that has only ever featured in Yuuri’s dreams. Between the tight, too-short top he’s sporting and the dark harem pants that hang low on his hips, he looks positively sinful. Yuuri could die happy in the sliver of skin between his shirt and the waistband of his pants. In any other context, he could wax poetic about Victor’s smooth, pale flesh and the jut of his hipbones. Right now, though, he’s sitting on the floor, staring wide-eyed at Victor’s clothing and just… Victor, himself, and none of this internal monologue is helping him right now.

Yuuri keeps his eyes carefully trained on Victor’s face — which isn’t much better than ogling his body, given the fact that Victor’s face is _flawless —_ but it’s the only way he can imagine making it out of this situation alive. “What are you doing here?”

“I want you to teach me how to dance!”

It’s such a startling response that a laugh bursts out of Yuuri’s chest, unwarranted. “Okay, but seriously. Why are you here?”

“Lilia says I’ve lost my muse,” he says with a put-upon sigh. It’s funny, how easily Yuuri can read him despite the fact that he’s only really met the ballet dancer once. Maybe all of his obsessive poring over every ounce of information he could glean about Victor Nikiforov over the internet is finally paying off.

Or Yuuri’s just a creep.

“And what does that have to do with me?” The most Yuuri can do for Victor is to teach him not to be so awful at Dance Dance Revolution — actually, scratch that. After witnessing the man’s performance a few days prior, Yuuri’s not sure _anyone_ could accomplish such a task.

“When you dance, it’s remarkable to watch. And you come up with your own choreography, yes?” Victor reaches out a hand, and Yuuri isn’t so dumb that he doesn’t take the proferred hand as the help it is. He’s pulled into a standing position as Victor talks, trying not to think too much about the radiating warmth of Victor’s hand in his own. (He fails, miserably.) “The higher-ups within the Bolshoi were not so pleased with my dancing, you know how it is.”

“I thought your performance last week was great,” Yuuri says, before he can think about it.

“You saw it!?”

Ah, hell. Yuuri had been trying to pretend that none of that had happened, that his first time meeting Victor had been in a too-warm arcade where he’d been blown away by Yuuri’s skills at a dumb videogame.  But… they’re still holding hands. Maybe Yuuri’s distracted Victor enough with this revelation that he’s forgotten this, but Yuuri certainly isn’t going to be the one to remind him. He swallows thickly as he memorizes the feel of Victor’s skin against the palm of his hand.

“My best friend got me a ticket,” Yuuri admits. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “We, ah, took a picture together.”

Victor frowns, then, and pulls his hand away. Yuuri pretends he’s not so dramatic as to feel like his heart’s been broken.

“Ah, I hate those,” he says, opening the door to the studio and gesturing for Yuuri to step through the threshold. “The officials usually only give me a few seconds to meet with fans, but I wish I could spend more time with them. It usually passes in a blur.”

“I figured,” Yuuri mutters, waving to Celestino. His boss nods back, and muscle memory leads Yuuri to one of the smaller, private rooms that he likes to practice in. Victor follows behind him.

“Oh no,” Victor says suddenly, and it stops Yuuri in his tracks. It sounds like Victor was just told terrible news — he sounds awfully fatalistic. “I just realized — this means we met before the arcade and I didn’t remember you! You probably think I’m horrible!”

Victor flops unceremoniously onto the floor of the private room as soon as they enter it, and it makes Yuuri smile — he looks and acts like a giant puppy, sometimes. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri! I was tired and I know that’s a horrible excuse, but—”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri laughs, and he means it. A small knot of tension unravels itself from within him — he didn’t realize how much the negativity of their (real) first meeting had been affecting him, but seeing Victor’s earnestness and hearing his apology helps.

“It must have been fate for us to meet again at the arcade!”

“It was fate for you to be terrible at DDR?”

“So cruel,” Victor whines, but then he’s arching his back into a stretch, and any response Yuuri might’ve had vanishes into thin air like all of the saliva in his mouth.

Yuuri averts his gaze and swallows nervously.

“Dance with me,” Victor says, although he’s still lying down and clearly not in any position to be dancing right this very second.

“What are we dancing?” Yuuri asks, mimicking Victor’s actions from before and reaching a hand out for Victor to grab and lever himself into a standing position.

Victor grins. “Anything. A warmup.”

It’s strange — he’s nervous around Victor, yes, but slipping into the role as his dance partner is as easy as sliding into a pool of lukewarm water. Maybe it’s his confidence as a dancer, or the way he instinctively knows his partner can keep up with him — can outdo him — that has him relaxing against Victor’s grip as they spin in an imitation of a ballroom dance.

Yuuri’s fingers interweave with Victor’s own as their arms extend outward, and then a warm hand’s sliding down the length of his back as they twirl. He forgets, for the briefest of moments, the reputation of the man he’s currently moving with. He’s just… Victor. They move like that for a moment, nothing too extreme, before Victor dips him. It’s such a paradoxically easy move that Yuuri finds himself surprised by it, even as his vision tips in response to the way Victor tilts his body downward.

“This isn’t ballet,” he teases as Victor brings him back up.

“I already know ballet,” Victor pouts. “I want to learn something fun. Contemporary.”

It’s one of the Bolshoi’s flaws that they stick so close to traditional forms of ballet. Yuuri’s never been in a place to criticize it, of course, but it is something he’s noticed over years of tracking Victor’s career.

Yuuri withdraws his hand and moves away, flaring his fingers out before he twirls back into Victor’s grasp. He’s positive there’s a grin on his face — his features almost hurt with how brilliantly he’s smiling, but he can’t help it. This is _fun,_ even if it’s mostly basic steps.

Victor hums. “So you’ll teach me, then?”

Yuuri can’t help but snort. “Sorry, this is all just…" He waves a hand about. "Very _Dirty Dancing.”_

“Do I get to be Baby?” Victor asks, eyes glittering with playfulness.

 _Anything you want,_ he almost responds, just barely swallowing the words down. The Victor he’s grown to know through Youtube videos of performances and interviews is different from the Victor in front of him now, and it tugs at something deep within Yuuri to be privileged enough to see it.

“Sure,” he allows, and the word’s barely out of his mouth before Victor’s dropping their current dance and sashaying across the studio’s wooden floor. He clears the room instantly, and Yuuri recognizes his intent with a startled laugh. “Oh my god, Victor. Really?”

“I never joke about dancing,” Victor says solemnly, but the words are belied by the upturned quirk of his lips.

Yuuri shakes his head in disbelief, but readies himself. He starts humming to the tune of _Time of My Life_ as Victor’s eyes meet his own and he takes off. It’s a shame he’s not in high heels, Yuuri thinks briefly, to complete the move.

When he’s close enough, Victor jumps, and naturally, Yuuri catches him. They spin like that, a perfect mimic of Johnny and Baby, and Yuuri has to let him down before he drops him because he eyes the two of them in the mirror spanning one entire wall of the studio and can’t quite control his laughter.

“This is ridiculous,” Yuuri giggles after Victor has two feet planted on the ground again. His hair is mussed from the jump — there must not be any product in it like there is for official performances — and he has a huge grin on his face, like all of his dreams have just come true.

It _is_ ridiculous. But Yuuri hasn’t had this much fun in ages.

“Stop laughing, Yuuri! It’s your turn!”

 

* * *

 

**v-nikiforov**

**phichitchu, katsudonyuuri, otabek-altin, gpopovich, and 3943 others like this**

fulfilling some childhood dreams with @katsudonyuuri, no big deal #dancing #partnerdancing  #dirtydancing #timeofmylife #lookhowstrongyuuriis #dancelifts #detroit

 **yuri_plisetsky** what the fuck is this  
 **katsudonyuuri** we’ll tell you when you’re older  
 **milababicheva** dreams? we’ve done this before, vitya!  
 **v-nikiforov** nobody ever lifts me, milotchka.  i’m always lead ((

 

* * *

 

**phichitchu**

**v-nikiforov, katsudonyuuri, chrisgiacometti, otabek-altin, and 903 others like this**

just out to dinner with a living legend. oh, and victor nikiforov #hiphop #katsudonyuuri #instagramfamous #dancing #sushi #ballet #victornikiforov #detroit #whoknewtherewasgoodsushiinmichigan

 **katsudonyuuri** PHICHIT  
 **phichitchu** ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡  
 **chrisgiacometti** i like this one, victor  
 **v-nikiforov** my entire life dedicated to ballet, only to get sidelined by yuuri? #worth

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s studio is nothing like the one back in Russia, and maybe that’s why Victor loves it so much. It isn’t that he hates his home studio — rather the opposite, actually, and he always misses Mila and Georgi and Lilia when he’s gone for extended periods of time — but the one Yuuri dances at is much smaller and intimate. It’s not specifically a ballet studio, either, and although there is a barre that winds its way around the main room, it’s rare to see ballet the only type of dance being instructed.

On top of Victor growing fond of Yuuri’s studio, he’s also found himself captivated by one of its instructors. What started as a warm bubbling of attraction for Yuuri has heated up to something more volatile, simmering until it’s constantly just under Victor’s skin when he’s in close proximity to the dancer.

Victor eases into one of Yuuri’s beginner dance classes — it’s privately hilarious to see a tall, silver-haired Russian man amongst a group of small children eager to please the smiling and warm dance instructor that Victor’s quickly falling for, but he hadn’t been lying. He’s a master of ballet, but has only been classically trained. If he wants to learn how Yuuri dances, it’s back to the basics.

 

* * *

 

Teaching Victor contemporary dance is going to give Yuuri an aneurism.

“So I pop my hips like _this?”_ he asks, like he has no idea what the action is doing to Yuuri’s libido. The worst part is that Yuuri can’t even look away, because how is he supposed to be a good instructor if he’s too busy willing an erection away to look at his student’s form?

“Perfect,” Yuuri says regretfully. Victor as a ballet dancer is a menace, but like this? He’s downright lethal. He’s a professional, he reminds himself. This isn’t the first time he’s had to teach attractive students, and he’s never had a problem with it in the past.

It’s just… Victor _has_ to be doing this on purpose. His sweats are low and tight across his hips, and he’s seem to have only brought shirts that are approximately 3 sizes too small to fit across his chest. Yuuri drew the line at Victor insisting on learning how to twerk, but hip hop is an innately sensual, provocative style of dance, and even as a classically-trained ballerino Victor is clearly capable of smoothing out his movements into something sexy as he rolls his hips or throws his shoulders back in the middle of dancing.

(He’s dreading teaching Victor how to jerk his hips forward and doing a backwards touch-down against the ground, if only because it may _actually_ kill Yuuri to see such a display of Victor’s flexibility.)

The days pass quickly enough, despite Yuuri ending every session with Victor with either a cold shower or some designated private time in the safety of his bedroom. Victor is a quick study, obviously, and it isn’t long before Yuuri feels he’s about to get overshadowed in skill by the terrifying force that is a principal dancer from the Bolshoi.

 

* * *

 

 **Victor (12:58 AM):  
** I’m dying

 **Chris (1:00 AM):  
** Hello to you too, Victor  
I’m doing fabulously, thanks for asking  
No, no, don’t feel guilt over waking me up at seven in the morning on my single day off

 **Victor (1:02 AM):  
** Ahhh, I forgot timezones  
Sorry  
BUT CHRIS  
Look at him  
[yuuri17.jpg]

 **Chris (1:04 AM):  
** I’ve seen him, you know  
[screenshot.jpg]  
He’s all you post on your Instagram now

 **Victor (1:05 AM):  
** (((  
I do it because I’m dying and I want the last thing all of my followers to see is Yuuri’s beautiful face

**[Call from ‘Chris’]**

“You sound worse than I did when I met Masumi. Come on, let it all out.”

“He’s the most compelling person I’ve met in years. Sometimes I think he’d — be interested, if I pushed, but then he retreats so far away, or looks so _scared_ when I hint at it that I’d feel terrible about even trying in the first place. And I don’t… want to ruin what we have? We have so much fun, and hip hop is interesting but he’s certainly not as strict or terrifying as Lilia. But I have to leave soon for New York, and I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve known him for two weeks. Surely if he rejects you, it isn’t a huge loss? You’ve never had a problem with flings while you’ve toured in the past.”

“...”

“Oh my god. You’re serious about this, aren’t you? About him.”

“I’ve never felt like this before. I have to be dying, right?”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“Stop laughing, Chris! I want to hold his hands without it being the pretense of a stupid dance move. I want him to meet Makkachin. I want him to dance in St. Petersburg with me.”

“Stupid dance mo-? Wait, what’s stopping you? _Carpe diem,_ right?”

“But what should I _do_?”

“You could tell him how you feel?”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Okay, Victor. Clearly the only answer is to keep pining until youdie.”

“Chris! … Chris? Rude.”

 

* * *

 

All good things come to an end.

Yuuri tries to content himself with the fact that Victor asks for his phone number before he leaves for New York. It’s not a promise of anything other than continued contact, but the truth of the matter is that their playful month together has come to an end. Their goodbye had been stilted, awkward even. For all the comfort they’d reached within the walls of Yuuri’s home studio, they couldn’t quite grasp it on the sidewalk just outside of a Starbucks where they’d just shared hot coffee to warm them up from the snowy weather. Detroit's frigid this time of year, snow drifting down quietly, and when Victor walks away Yuuri feels cold down to his very bones in a way that isn't entirely due to the weather.

When he returns home, alone, Yuuri considers choreographing something to Tchaikovsky's _Cinderella_. It certainly feels like his fairy tale night is coming to a close, and it’s time for him to return to the mundanity of everyday life. His Prince Charming is returning to _his_ reality, of world-class ballet dancing and the luxuries that fame afford, and Yuuri doesn’t belong in that world.

Maybe his composition will just be ballet. He’s not up for creating something to a remix of Tchaikovsky’s again — that hits a little too close to home. Anyway, it would make Minako back home happy to see, after his years of breakaway from her classical training, and it would give him something to distract himself with.

 

* * *

 

“You’re worse than those characters in stupid romcoms that Georgi always makes us watch,” Yuri bites out, beating a cheap airplane pillow into submission.  He’s nestled comfortably (how, Victor isn’t sure) into his seat on the plane. It probably has something to do with Yuri being just like a cat: made of liquid and able to orient himself in the tiniest of spaces with ease. Puberty will be a hard pill to swallow, when it comes, but for now, he seems content with his small frame and the ease with which he can contort himself.

He’s also filled with the youngness that allows him to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, and Victor thinks wistfully about how he hasn’t been that young for a long, long time.

“Am not,” he says belatedly, as though it helps his case at all. But he can’t help it: he _misses_ Yuuri. It seems almost like a punishment, to have to drag himself away from Yuuri’s studio and laughter and not-quite effective methods of teaching (how does he expect to improve Victor’s dancing when sometimes he can’t even look at him?) in order to perform with the NYC Ballet Company.

It should be the other way around, he knows: spending time in Detroit was a fleeting vacation, and this is the reality of his life.

At least in Georgi’s romcoms, the main characters always ended up finding and keeping love, Victor thinks sullenly.

 

* * *

 

While Victor’s in New York, Yuuri perfects his _Stammi Vicino_ routine. The studio seems lonely without Victor’s loud exclamations and his younger students frequently asking where _the man with the Russian accent_ is.

He’d almost fooled himself into thinking he could actually choreograph an entirely new program instead, but the moment he’d stepped foot in the studio he knew nothing was going to satisfy him like finally hammering out all of the finer detail of the routine he’d been working on for so long.

The thing about _Stammi Vicino_ is that when Yuuri closes his eyes, he can see the graceful arc of Victor’s legs as he’d danced it as clearly as if it were actually happening just in front of him. His entire routine has been burned onto Yuuri’s memory, and when he breaks at the first drop in the remixed version of the song, he feels more aligned with Victor’s emotions than when they’d been together.

 _Stay Close to Me._ Yuuri knows better now than to be as presumptuous to imagine Victor saying something like that to _him,_ but his performance had certainly held the quality of yearning, of seeking out to find someone who could meet him where he was, and Yuuri _feels_ that. It would be remiss not to include it in his own choreography, and all things considered, it’s incredibly easy to do.

Yuuri misses him. It’s a simple sentiment with endless layers of complex emotion attached to it, because idolizing Victor from a distance is _nothing_ like befriending him and spending three weeks doing something as ridiculous as trying to teach a world-class ballet dancer how to _dance._ He’s not quite sure how to cope. This is fairly unprecedented.

It isn’t long before insecurity crawls in, unwarranted, and starts to eat at him: was Victor’s time in Detroit merely a distraction until he could perform in New York and finally return to Russia, where he belongs? Their time together had been important to Yuuri, but he knows Victor well enough to know the man’s attention is fleeting, and that he forgets easily. Will time away from Yuuri make their time seem more trivial to Victor?

Yuuri’s anxiety spikes in the worst ways, and not even Phichit’s typical methods of comfort (“We’ll build a pillow fort and watch _Totoro,_ Yuuri, Miyazaki can fix anything!”) aren’t sufficient. He knows he’s probably being stupid, but he really, really can’t help it.

 

* * *

 

 **Yuuri (4:17 PM):  
** Happy birthday, Victor

 _[Draft]  
_ I’m sorry you have to spend it alone.

 **Victor (4:23 PM):  
** Yuuri!! Thank you!!

 **Yuuri (4:24 PM):  
** Of course  
I hope your performance goes well (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

 **Victor (4:26 PM):  
** How could it not, with your well wishes~

 _[Draft]  
_ I wish you were here, with me

 

* * *

 

Victor’s tour ends with the Christmas show.

Yuuri chews his lip so hard it splits, tender skin stinging and raw as evidence of his anxiety. It’s something they haven’t talked about: Victor has to return to Russia, obviously. The Bolshoi isn’t exactly known for their lenient scheduling, which means he's probably at their mercy and will have to return immediately after the NYC show. Which was yesterday.

He's already seen the footage of the performance — had, in fact, been looking it up mere hours after Victor's routine had ended, desperate to see him performing _Stammi Vicino_ once more. 

When it finally shows up, a grainy Youtube video uploaded by a ballet fan, Victor is as elegant and beautiful as ever, but he seems… sad. Yuuri is not sure why, when he has a sold-out auditorium cheering wildly for him, but he's not sure how — or even  _if he could_  — bring it up with the man himself. 

Emotion, Minako had told him ages ago, was one of a ballet dancer’s biggest assets.

(“Never let someone tell you to stop feeling for the sake of dance,” she had said in a tone so serious Yuuri couldn’t help but listen to every word. “There are times when you will be overwhelmed with sadness, or something negative that could be detrimental to your performance, but those emotions make you who you are. Someone can have all the mechanical skill in the world, but if they appear lifeless on the stage, like they’re merely going through the motions, they are nothing.”)

Victor will never be nothing, but there’s something worrying about his dancing that has Yuuri nervous.

 

* * *

 

**v-nikiforov**

**chrisgiacometti, yuri_plisetsky, katsudonyuuri, milababicheva and 7236 other like this**

a HUGE thank you to #newyorkcity for showing me so much love on my birthday. i hope you all enjoyed stammi vicino as much as i do! #merrychristmas #ballet #nyc #bolshoi #nycballet

 **shesenpointe** you were lovely to watch! merry christmas~

 

* * *

 

 **Victor (11:55 PM):  
** Yuuri?

 **Yuuri (11:58 PM):  
** Yeah?

 **Victor (12:02 AM):  
** Do you mind if I fly back to Detroit for a few days?  
Lilia’s kind of annoyed because we have a new performance to prepare for so she wants me back St. Petersburg  
but I didn’t want to leave without seeing you again

 **Victor (12:15 AM):  
** Yuuri?

 **Victor (12:47 AM):  
** Sorry  
I know that's a lot to spring on you  
Forget I asked!

 **Yuuri (1: 03 AM):  
** DGLKADFGS  
Victor  
Fuck  
No no please come I’d love you to  
I’m sorry one of Phichit’s hamsters got out i was looking for her  
i wasn’t ignoring you  
You could stay with us if you don’t want to get a hotel again??

 **Victor (1:04 AM):  
** (/^▽^)/  
My flight’s at 5:30, I should be in around 7:45

 **Yuuri (1:05 AM):  
** Who taught you how to do kaomojis?  
And I can pick you up

 **Victor (1:06 AM):  
** … Phichit  
And yay! )))

 

* * *

 

Victor’s barely off the plane when Yuuri blurts out, “There’s something I want to show you,” praying that Victor can’t detect the underlying tone of his words that make them come out more like a confession than a request for Victor’s time. “It’s a birthday present.”

He feel sick to his stomach with nerves regarding what he’s about to do, but he isn’t about to back out now. Victor nods in excitement at the idea of a present, and Yuuri instructs the cab driver to take them to the studio.

 

* * *

 

Victor loves surprises. He — well, maybe not _loves_ Yuuri, not quite yet, he’s too cagey with such emotions to really declare something like that so easily, but he’s certainly well on his way to that endgame. Leaving him for even a few days had been harder than he'd ever imagined it to be, but he's ecstatic to be back in Detroit.

Chris was right in that they’d only known each other for a month — not very much time at all — but Victor doesn’t care. It's a common theme he's detected lately: he'd barely even cared when he’d choreographed his own routine to _Stammi Vicino_. It had been one of his most personal pieces, created to express the desire for _more_ than what he already has. What Lilia has identified in his dancing has percolated into every fiber of his existence, amplified by the time he’s spent with Yuuri and his close friends in Detroit.

His friends, his position at the Bolshoi, Makkachin… Victor knows he’s lucky. But if yearning for more is selfish, if wanting what he’s seen in movies and read in books and witnessed in his friends’ lives is greedy, then so be it.

Victor _wants._

Surprises and Yuuri, though. Combined, they’re a force to be reckoned with.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri rolls his neck, the first few lines of music threading through his mind even before he hits play on his phone and it starts playing aloud.

He poses, waiting in the deafening silence until the the first notes tinkle loudly in the emptiness of the studio, and then he dances.

The routine is ingrained into his mind. He knows it by heart, now, has retraced his steps and perfected every move until he felt confident to dance it in front of the person who means the most to him, and there's simply no room for even the tiniest margin of error. His confidence is a tsunami, right now, unstoppable and overwhelming.

Yuuri has always thought of Victor when he’s danced. Even from a young age, when he’d seen the flawless, long-haired nymph of a boy dancing to _The Nutcracker_ on TV, he’d been captivated. It was enough inspiration to beg Minako to teach him ballet, to practice until his feet bruised and cramped and bled, and it had been Victor Nikiforov of the Bolshoi Ballet that had inspired him to branch out, to explore other types of dance that had let him to the sexy, fast-paced rhythms of hip hop.

He’s always thought of Victor when he’s danced, but this is the first time he dances _for_ Victor.

It’s not a bad change at all.

Yuuri puts his everything into the dance: every slide across the floor, each time he pops his hips or jerks his head to the rhythm of the music as his hands fly and move in time to the song, it’s for Victor, because of Victor.

He understands it now, in a way he hadn’t without Victor as an audience: _Stay close to me. Don’t take your eyes off me._

All too soon, the closing bars of _Stammi Vicino_ fill the air. Yuuri exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding as he strikes his final pose and looks directly into Victor’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

Victor’s never been more grateful that it’s just the two of them in the studio, because he makes no attempt to conceal the tears that fall freely down his face as Yuuri finishes and the music peters out.

He’s not typically an ugly crier, but he’s positive that the expression on his face right about now would ruin any prospects he has at modelling.

“Yuuri,” he whispers, but in the silence of the studio, it’s deafeningly loud.

Yuuri’s chest heaves with exertion, but it’s the satisfied exhalations of a successful program, and that’s something Victor knows all too well. His heart swells, then aches terribly, like his entire body knows that he’s standing on the precipice of _something_ and is surely about to take the next step into the unknown.

“Victor,” he says in return, averting his gaze like he’s embarrassed, even though he essentially just stripped Victor’s entire _soul_ raw and laid it bare on the worn wooden flooring of the dance studio. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s Victor.

He chooses his words carefully. Victor knows he’s impulsive, knows he blurts out whatever he’s thinking as soon as he thinks it and is typically so, so careless in his actions because surprises are the only way he’s seen as interesting, anymore, but Yuuri — Yuuri deserves more than that, for this.

“This is, undoubtedly, the best birthday gift anyone has ever given me.”

Because it’s not just about material things, it’s not just about his friends fulfilling an obligation as they celebrate him turning a year older. Yuuri took something from inside of Victor and made it into his own, but in all the best ways. A tribute to one of his most personal pieces, transformed into something so entrenched in _Yuuri —_ his dance style, his emotions, his expressions —

Victor doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to dance _Stammi Vicino_ the same way again, after seeing Yuuri’s version.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s just a routine I came up with,” Yuuri responds, because that is who he is: constantly downplaying his creativity and his achievements, needing the reassurance that his efforts to go above and beyond have succeeded.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor breathes. “This is so much more than that. _You_ are so much more than that.”

Yuuri looks up, then, and Victor suddenly has no idea why he’s feared overstepping this boundary for so long: there is no way someone put this much time and _love_ into something of Victor’s unless they felt the same overpowering affection that courses throughout his entire body.

It’s the most natural thing in the world to slide his hands up until they’re cupping Yuuri’s face. Without his glasses on, there’s no barrier between his eyes and Victor’s own, and dark pools of brown look up at him as Victor tilts his head forward and finally, _finally_ kisses him.

Yuuri’s stock still for a moment before he surges into action, arms coming up to drape around Victor’s neck. His mouth is hot and wet and _perfect,_ and Victor purrs into the kiss. It feels amazing, like...

Like coming home.

He’s pretty sure it’s not particularly romantic to have his first kiss with Yuuri while tears stream down his face, but Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind. He withdraws after what feels like eternity but still isn’t long enough, and frames Victor’s face with the smooth skin of his palms. Yuuri places a kiss right on the tip of his nose, fingers wiping the tears away. The look in his eyes overwhelms Victor until he can't speak.

The next time their lips meet, there’s an undercurrent of something more passionate, something hotter thrumming through his veins, and Victor’s thoughts fall to the wayside as he’s consumed by Yuuri’s smell, Yuuri’s taste, _Yuuri._

There’s no place he’d rather be.

Seconds melt into minutes into an indeterminable period of time, and they end up making out like horny teenagers against the hard wooden floor of the dance studio.

“This is ridiculous,” Yuuri says, when they’re parted to catch their breaths, and it’s an echo of the first time Victor had danced with Yuuri, in this very studio. He can’t help the surge of affection that rises in his chest, then, at just how close they’ve gotten, and as soon as the thought hits him, he can’t help but test this, test them.

Victor rolls until his side presses against the length of Yuuri’s body, and then he’s shifting until his palms are flat against the floor and he’s arching over his favorite person in the world.

“Hello there,” Yuuri says up to him, like they haven’t been making out. His swollen, well-kissed lips are a dead giveaway, though, and Victor can’t help but swoop down to kiss him again — Yuuri looks irresistible like this.

He’s content to stay that way: arched over Yuuri, entirely consumed by him, at least until Victor threads a hand through Yuuri’s hair and it triggers something within the man beneath him as his hips buck involuntarily against Victor’s own.

After that point, Victor really can’t be held responsible for his actions.

“Oh, _Yuuri,”_ he purrs, moving down the pale column of Yuuri’s neck and pressing kisses along the way.

Yuuri sounds embarrassed as he apologizes profusely, and that just won’t do. The best way to interrupt Yuuri when he’s flustered, Victor has learned, is to take action rather than try to placate him with words, and so he feels no guilt as he slides a thigh between Yuuri’s sweatpant-clad legs, feeling satisfaction purr deeply in the back of his mind when it bumps against a tell-tale hardness and Yuuri’s words stutter to a halt.

Victor’s not entirely sure how far Yuuri’s willing to go — he knows the other man to be frighteningly skittish around certain topics, especially those pertaining to sex, but he can’t help but push his boundaries. There’s an attractive man pinned beneath him that’s _hard_ for him, and in this moment, he won’t pretend to be a strong man.

“Hello there,” Victor mimics, immensely pleased by the flush riding high on Yuuri’s cheeks as he presses his thigh forward.

“Victor,” Yuuri groans, and _oh,_ Victor could get used to his name sounding like that, breathy and hitching as it comes out of Yuuri’s throat. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” he whines, moving a hand so that he’s trailing fingers just around Yuuri’s waistband. He’s hard from their kissing, and now that he seems receptive to this change of pace, Victor can’t quite imagine this day going any other way. He knows he probably sounds like a petulant child, but he can’t help it.

“Not here,” Yuuri corrects, although Victor can’t see why not. It’s not like there’s anyone around, not this early on a Monday morning, and he’d be lying if he said the idea of defacing a dance studio with such a thing doesn’t sound _hot._ Victor lets out a wordless whine, grinding his hips down until they’re flush against Yuuri’s. The sensation provides much-needed relief to his aching erection, and he swallows a moan as Yuuri bucks up against him.

“We don’t have any lube, Victor,,” Yuuri’s saying through the pounding of blood in Victor’s ears, “please.”

Oh. _Oh._

“You’re going to kill me,” Victor breathes, even as he whips out his phone and requests an Uber lightning-quick. He’s not sure if it would be better or worse if Yuuri could drive: at least like this, he’ll be able to touch and distract Yuuri as someone else drives them, but they’d be home sooner if they could get into a car right this second and return to Yuuri’s home.

The heat of arousal arcs through his veins as he surges forward to kiss Yuuri once more before they get up properly: he doesn’t even try to hide how turned on he is, opting to communicate with the press of his lips and the nip of his teeth against Yuuri’s own. Yuuri kisses back just as passionately, which is as good a sign as any, but it’s still not _enough._

They grab Victor’s things and tumble into the back seat of the car the moment it arrives outside the dance studio: fortunately, it’s relatively clean, and this early in the morning there aren’t many other cars on the road.

It still takes too long to get back to Yuuri’s apartment, though.

“Stop,” Yuuri whispers as Victor reaches over across their seats to slyly brush a hand over the bulge in Yuuri’s sweats, but he’s flushed and wiggling uncomfortably against the leather of the seat, and Victor grins victoriously.

“But I missed you, Yuuri,” he responds, unbuckling his seatbelt before scootching over until he’s in the middle seat just beside Yuuri. His dick’s throbbing uncomfortably within the confines of his jeans, but it’s not like he can do anything about it right this moment, so he settles for nuzzling against Yuuri’s exposed neck affectionately. Yuuri’s grabbing his wrist to prevent him from feeling him up again, and Victor retaliates by scraping his teeth gently against the column of his throat.

Hopefully their Uber driver doesn’t mind public displays of affection. (Honestly, Victor doesn’t really care if she doesn’t.)

Yuuri lets out a soft moan as Victor mouths against the junction between his collarbone and neck, and then flinches. Hmm, interesting. Victor licks the shell of his ear again, testing the reaction. He’s promptly shoved back over into his original seat, and Yuuri refuses to look at him, face flushing so hard he could probably melt the Detroit snow if he pressed his face against it.

Victor chuckles and watches him the rest of the drive home.

“You’re terrible,” Yuuri says as they arrive at his apartment and he fumbles with his keys. Victor considers just pinning him to the front door of his apartment and having his way with him right there, but by the time he’s moving to put his half-cocked plan into action, Yuuri’s turning over the deadbolt and pushing the door open, and, well, pinning him to the inside wall of the entryway is just as appealing as the apartment door, in all honesty.

Yuuri seems not to mind, judging by the way his grip tightens against his shoulders as Victor licks his way into his mouth. It’s almost… fun, in a similar way as teasing Yuuri during their dance lessons. Not entirely alike it, and there are pressing concerns currently making themselves known to Victor, but Victor still feels like he’s flying.

“Phichit might be home,” Yuuri breathes against Victor’s mouth.

Victor pulls away to call out, “Phichit, I’m about to have my way with your best friend! Speak now if you have any complaints.”

“Victor!”

But Yuuri calling out Victor’s name is the only noise in the apartment: it seems like Phichit’s gone out (Victor owes him one) and it’s just the two of them and Victor’s salacious thoughts to keep them company. He grins wickedly.

“You’re so—” Yuuri starts, but any complaint he might have been trying to voice is promptly stifled as soon as Victor drops to his knees and yanks down the elastic band of his sweatpants.

He’s gaping down at Victor like he can’t quite believe his eyes, and that’s just the confidence booster Victor needs as he wraps his lips around Yuuri’s dick. It’s perfect, just like the rest of him — hard and smooth, and the salty taste of precome fills his mouth as he tries to swallow Yuuri down whole.

It’s possible he’s a little _too_ enthusiastic as he sucks Yuuri down into his mouth eagerly before having to pull away and cough at the exertion on his throat — fuck, it’s been far too long since he’s done this — but it’s worth it to see the way Yuuri looks down at him endearingly and a little disbelievingly.

He settles for wrapping slender fingers around the base of Yuuri’s cock and jerking him off in time with licks of his tongue and sucking pressure as he hollows his cheeks. It’s sloppy, with drool smearing across Victor’s face, but it’s worth it to see the man fall apart in front of him.

Yuuri’s like putty in his hands, breathy moans filling the air, and when he comes, it looks like a full-body experience. His entire body tenses and his head jerks back, knocking against the wall in what has to be a painful way, but judging from the way he’s keening, the sharp pain at his head isn’t nearly enough to override the pleasure as orgasm wracks his frame.

Victor swallows him down, hot heat sliding down his throat as he wrinkles his nose against the bitter taste, and he detaches himself from Yuuri’s dick with an audible _pop!_ as he looks up admiringly at him.

He’s startled to see that Yuuri doesn’t look blissed-out and ecstatic. Rather, there’s an almost-frown set upon his lips and a determined glint in his eyes, and then he’s pulling Victor up until they’re both standing.

“Bedroom,” Yuuri says, and then in a display of energy Victor couldn’t have pulled off after an intense orgasm, kicks off his sweatpants and fairly drags Victor and himself across the hallway and into his room. “That… I wanted to make you come.”

Now _he’s_ the one sounding petulant, but Victor can’t find it in him to complain. “That can be arranged,” he says playfully, taking the opportunity to cup himself through his jeans. He hisses at the touch, his cock begging to be touched properly. _All in good time,_ he reminds himself, hopping on the bed and shooting Yuuri a cocky grin.

Yuuri leans over to set his glasses on the nightstand before he riffles through one of its drawers, and Victor takes the opportunity to admire the curve of his ass as he does so. Without pants on, there’s a _lot_ to admire, after all. When he leans back, small tube of lube and the foil of a condom caught between his fingers, Victor plucks them from his hand and smooths a hand over the pert flesh of one asscheek.

“Have you—”

“Not for awhile,” Yuuri interrupts, flopping onto the bed before pressing his face into the pillow. “But it’s okay. I’ve wanted this for awhile.”

It’s a paradoxical action: after what they’ve done, Yuuri really has no cause to act so embarrassed, but Victor supposes that’s part of his charm. His words certainly don’t indicate any shyness: they send deep tendrils of heat thrumming through Victor’s entire body, but he forces himself to take his time. He doesn’t want to hurt Yuuri, and so he liberally applies lube to both his fingers and Yuuri’s entrance before slipping a single finger between the curve of his asscheeks until he’s pressing against Yuuri’s entrance.

Yuuri writhes beautifully against the sheets as he pushes in, taking care to go slowly and stretch him out properly. He’s tense — maybe another bout of nerves — and Victor sooths him with quiet, throaty noises.

“Relax, solnyshka, I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs, sliding a second finger in against the first. His words seem to do the trick, and it isn’t long before he’s adding in a third, all the while enjoying the view. Yuuri’s fists are clenched in the sheets, hair all messed up about his face and teeth digging into the pink plumpness of his lip.

He would love to watch Yuuri fall apart entirely under his attentions — to force him to the brink of the edge, playing with him for hours and learning all about his erogenous zones through gentle brushes of skin against skin and teasing actions. In fact, Yuuri deserves such pampering. For now, though, he’s painfully hard, and he _needs_ to be inside Yuuri before he explodes.

Hopefully, there will be plenty of time to worship his Yuuri’s body in the future.

“Ready?” Victor asks, though it’s mostly a formality. He can feel the way Yuuri’s stretched around his lube-slick fingers, and he anticipates the tight heat to be utterly divine.

“Mm,” Yuuri nods, breathing heavy as he stares down the length of his body to where Victor’s nestled between his thighs.

Victor finally, _finally_ frees his cock and wastes no time in slicking it up with lube, deftly rolling the condom on, and pressing the tip against Yuuri’s entrance. The anticipation has been killing him, but he still makes sure to keep an eye on Yuuri’s facial expressions as he presses forward. He knows almost as soon as he’s fully sheathed within Yuuri that he isn’t going to last. Not with the intense, tight heat surrounding him and the vivid memory of Yuuri dancing to _his_ music so fresh in his mind.

“Move,” Yuuri pants, and Victor realizes he’s paused, waiting for Yuuri to give him the okay. And, well, Victor’s not one to disobey such a charming command.

He picks up a steady rhythm, now that Yuuri’s properly adjusted, and it’s _wonderful._ Yuuri’s beautiful, hips bucking up against Victor’s as he fucks into him, and he feels pressure building up far too quickly, and so he presses Yuuri further into the sheets,  moving to grasp Yuuri’s dick and stroking it in tandem with his thrusts.

He can tell the exact moment Yuuri comes: his cock is squeezed deliciously tight as Yuuri's body seizes again, orgasm overtaking him as Victor pumps into him and jerks him off. The sensation mixed with the look of pure pleasure on Yuuri's face is his undoing, and he watches, lightheaded, as come stripes Yuuri's stomach, the white of his seed contrasting beautifully with his bared skin.

 _“Yuuri,”_ Victor keens, and it’s simultaneously bliss and agony that he couldn’t last longer when orgasm hits full-force, like a wave crashing over him. He’s drowning in the pleasure as he spills deep into Yuuri, his entire consciousness narrowed down to the pinprick of Yuuri’s sweat-slick skin pressing against his and the overwhelming pleasure rushing over him.

He has enough sense to tie off the condom and chuck it toward the corner of the room before he collapses onto the bed, heart racing a mile a minute and a goofy smile stretching across his face.

Victor revels in the calm that comes with _incredible_ orgasms for what feels like eternity. It’s too early in the day to truly fall asleep, but he dozes comfortably, eyes closed as he relaxes into the plush comfort of Yuuri’s bed. It’s the lightest he’s felt in recent memory. It’s warm in Yuuri’s apartment; they must have turned the heat on to keep the coldness of winter snow at bay. It’s nothing like back home in Russia, but Victor finds himself growing rather fond of this milder weather.

Comfortable quiet overtakes them, at least until Yuuri sidles up to Victor’s frame and ruts against him not-too-subtly, the hardness of his length dragging over the skin of Victor’s hip.

“Again?” Victor huffs, though it’s more of an empty complaint than anything else. He could spend the rest of his life like this.

“I seem to recall,” Yuuri starts, looking entirely like a predator who has found its next meal, “you commenting on my remarkable stamina…”

 

* * *

 

Over the years, Phichit has seen a lot.

It’s kind of what he does: he observes, taking in all information available to him to be filed away and used at an opportune time. It’s part of why he’s so socially-savvy; he has to be attentive to evaluate situations and the relationships of others. He’s always been proficient at doing so, and the years of experience have only helped him hone his talent.

What he’s observing right now is his best friend _clearly_ besotted with one of the world’s best ballet dancers, and he grins widely at the sight of them. His mother’s told him that it’s not polite to view something like a live performance through the screen of a cell phone, but there’s _no_ way he’s about to miss recording something like this. Contemporary ballet’s always intrigued him, but it’s something that’s just starting to break the mold of dance forms. It’s inspiring, the way different styles of dance can combine to create something new and innovative and _wonderful,_ and having a front-row seat to such a performance is exciting.

Phichit’s seen Yuuri practice his hip-hop translation of Victor’s _Stammi Vicino_ more times than he can count, but it’s different now, like this. He sees it, now, as Yuuri and Victor intertwine with one another: this piece was never crafted to be a solo one.

It was definitely meant to be a duet.

 

* * *

 

**katsudonyuuri**

**marikatsuki, yuri_plisetsky, v-nikiforov, phichitchu and 3601 others like this**

happy new year, everyone! my new year’s resolution is to make as many new memories with @v-nikiforov as i possibly can during his extended vacation in america! what’s yours? #happynewyear #victornikiforov #kisses #happy #love #lookingforwardtothefuture

 **yuri_plisetsky** my new years resolution is to block both of you so i never have to see something this gross again  
 **leodelaiglesia** you guys are so cute!!  
 **milababicheva** yura, you liked both of their photos  
 **yuri_plisetsky** GOODBYE  
 **phichitchu** i’m printing this photo and framing it as we speak. it’s my new phone bg. i’m making it into wallpaper and plastering it all over our apartment. i’m sending it to everyone on the internet  
 **chrisgiacometti** ahhh, love is in the air~

 

* * *

 

**v-nikiforov**

**katsudonyuuri, milababicheva, chrisgiacometti, yuri-plisetsky and 9163 others like this**

i have a feeling this year with @katsudonyuuri is going to be one of the best of my life <3 #lifeandlove #happynewyears #ilovehim

 **milababicheva** lilia and yakov both had an Emotion after seeing this picture, what have you done  
 **yuri_plisetsky** you can keep him around until i beat him at DDR  
 **katsudonyuuri** so… forever? that was actually kind of cute  
 **yuri_plisetsky** blocked


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